


from within this gaping wound of ours

by ReinventAndBelieve



Series: a new us has begun [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (turns out everything I write has Dom/sub Undertones whoops), 1.06 aftermath, Angst, Come Sharing, Diving Into Polyamory, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Eventual Smut, Everyone has feelings, F/M, Face-Sitting, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Heartbroken Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Practically Nonexistent Witcher Refractory Periods, Praise Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, Soft Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Switch Jaskier | Dandelion, Threesome - F/M/M, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23323183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReinventAndBelieve/pseuds/ReinventAndBelieve
Summary: For the first time since that damned mountain, since the dragon hunt and everything collapsing, he sees her violet eyes flash, a spark of that stormy intensity that had given him warning all the way back in Rinde. “Bullshit.” Her hard voice is a challenge. “I’m beinghonestwith you, bard. I’d appreciate if you did the same. I don’t want to hear whatever lies you told each other or yourselves.”--After a year, Jaskier encounters Geralt and Yennefer at an inn on the coast. The three confront their entangled history and search for a way forward without wreaking further heartbreak.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: a new us has begun [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677274
Comments: 81
Kudos: 620
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _From within this gaping wound of ours  
>  A new us has begun_
> 
> Title from New York Torch Song because I'm trash and can't stop listening to The Amazing Devil.
> 
> This work exists in the same universe as [you try so loud to love me (i cannot seem to hear)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23225791), which explores Geralt and Jaskier's relationship before meeting Yennefer; they certainly can be read together but by no means have to be. 
> 
> This is primarily show verse, but does include a brief reference to plot points in the "A Shard of Ice" story in _The Sword of Destiny._ That being said, we're playing fast and loose with canon here, friends.

“I used to be quite jealous of you, you know.”

Jaskier hadn’t heard the sorceress approach. His hands still on the strings of his lute, but he doesn’t turn to greet her, keeping his bare feet dangling in the cool water before him. It’s a clear spring night, and though the threat of cold lingers in the breeze, Jaskier needs the escape the water provides.

It’s been two days since Geralt and Yennefer entered the tiny seaside tavern with a wide-eyed, ashen-haired slip of a girl between them, looking every bit a family. The sight stole the words from Jaskier’s mouth mid-verse, his hands frozen on the strings of his lute for a moment. He cleared his throat, stuttered out a flustered apology to the few gathered patrons, and tried to escape. It hadn’t worked. Geralt’s words were casual enough as he greeted him, but he stared at him with a look that had Jaskier not known better might be mistaken for relief (he did know better, though. _If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands_ ). He’d wanted to leave, but it took just one imploring look from those golden eyes Jaskier hadn’t seen in over a year and suddenly he found himself making stilted conversation over bowls of stew with the adorable little princess of Cintra and Yennefer of _fucking_ Vengerberg.

Now Yennefer sits beside him on the dock gingerly, pulling the thin white nightdress about her knees to avoid soaking it as she slips off the flat shoes and mirrors the bard’s position, little ripples splashing against his calves at the gentle disturbance. When Jaskier chances a glance at her, the moonlight shines blue in her dark hair, pulled into a messy knot at the back of her neck. Her normal dramatic makeup is gone, and it strikes him how very young she looks. _Stupid_ , he tells himself quickly. _It doesn’t matter how many centuries older than you she probably is, she’ll never show it, while you keep wrinkling and shrivelling away._

He doesn’t know if she expects a response, but he has none to give. He gently sets his lute down beside him on the dock and stares out at the vast emptiness of the sea before them.

“When he brought you to me in Rinde,” she continues, her harsh voice softer than usual, settling into a husky murmur, “he was a desperate man. He would have done absolutely anything, given absolutely anything, to ensure your welfare. I looked at this huge brooding eyeful of a man carrying you around like a ragdoll, but a ragdoll he was convinced hung the moon, and I thought, gods, this fucking bard can inspire this level of devotion, but I can’t? Where do I find my own Geralt of Rivia?”

It’s meant as a joke, Jaskier knows, but it stings. He swallows. “Well, you found one.” _That’s_ meant as a joke, too, yet he chokes on the words. They’re not supposed to talk about this. It’s hard enough just being with them, seeing the casual touches, the tender glances, the familiarity, the intimacy. Which explains how he ended up out here with a now-empty flask in the first place, attempting to write a song about anything other than a certain witcher and failing miserably.

She’s quiet for a moment. “I was jealous of you,” she repeats, weighing each word carefully. “He cared about you with this intensity that I longed for.” She tucks a stray strand of hair neatly behind an ear. “When we came together, I resented you. He and I would meet and catch each other aflame. But then it was cold. We…” She laughs, an abrupt bark of a thing. “Both of us are shite when it comes to being honest and vulnerable and open. I never quite knew how Geralt really felt about me, but I always knew how he felt about you. And I hated it.” The sound of the waves, so gentle and soothing moments before, seems deafening in Yennefer’s silence. She draws a breath. “I never knew when or even if the two of you stopped fucking, so I resented you for that, too. I’ve always been horrible at sharing.”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. He wonders, briefly, if she read his thoughts, now or sometime in the distant past. Perhaps he’s just been obvious; perhaps everyone who’s spent any time in the same room as Jaskier and Geralt knows. Perhaps—and a searing rush of nausea runs through him—perhaps Geralt told her.

No. Geralt wouldn’t have told her.

Geralt never told him to keep it a secret, what was between them. There was never a conversation warning him never to talk about it, not to anyone else, not even to each other, but he knew. Geralt didn’t forbid it, but he didn’t touch him around other people, flinched away at the most casual, innocent touch from Jaskier. He barely spoke to him in public, balked if Jaskier referred to them as friends. If they were in an inn (and for some reason Geralt _didn’t_ happen to fuck off into the night without a word, as he was wont to do), he would clamp a strong, angular hand over Jaskier’s mouth when he became loud enough that someone might hear as he pounded the bard into oblivion.

Geralt was never too loud.

Yennefer is looking at him, her features surprisingly soft. Jaskier shakes his head, as though the simple action might clear away unwanted memories. No, he decides, she must have just pieced it together. She’s smart, and she knows Geralt better than most anyone else. It makes sense. The damn witch figured it out with her witch intuition, and instead of leaving it alone, she’s decided to break the cardinal rule. She shouldn’t _talk_ about this.

He takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. “Whatever happened between Geralt and me,” he begins, his voice low, “didn’t mean anything. We traveled together for years, sometimes with no other company for weeks at a time. If we...if...it was scratching an itch. Nothing more.”

For the first time since that damned mountain, since the dragon hunt and everything collapsing, he sees her violet eyes flash, a spark of that stormy intensity that had given him warning all the way back in Rinde. “Bullshit.” Her hard voice is a challenge. “I’m being _honest_ with you, bard. I’d appreciate if you did the same. I don’t want to hear whatever lies you told each other or yourselves.”

“Fine,” he snaps, his voice a quiet fury, a dam breaking as red-hot _feeling_ pours out without his permission and he’s helpless to stop it. “Fine. I threw myself at him for two fucking decades, making an utter ass of myself traipsing about after him all across the continent quite literally singing his praises until he pity-fucked me. Is that what you want to hear? He fucked me in the woods because I was the only option and in the towns occasionally because I was cheaper than the alternative, but he never _wanted_ me. So I don’t know why you’re jealous and honestly, Yennefer, I don’t care, you have no reason to be. As soon as he met you I was just a nuisance to unload as soon as possible.”

He wipes his eyes roughly, angry at the tears escaping, angry at his outburst, angry at Yennefer and how beautiful she looks in the moonlight, angry at Geralt for not loving him back. Angry at himself for expecting him to.

A small, tentative arm curls around his shoulder, up to his neck, pulling him down. To his own surprise, he lets it happen, lets himself succumb to the sorceress’s uncharacteristically gentle embrace, his face buried in the crook of her neck and shoulder, smelling that same evocative scent he’d smelled on Geralt so many times, and he cries.

Yennefer’s fingers card through the messy waves of his hair as she rocks ever so slightly.

“Before…” he gulps, trying to get the words out, his voice muffled against her skin, “before you, I could write it off as...as a witcher thing. Witchers don’t feel emotions, that’s what they’ve told us since we were children. We know it isn’t true but it helped to believe it, some days.” He stills in her arms. “But then I watched him fall in love with you. And that’s how I knew.”

Yennefer nods, her warm hand still a curiously comforting presence against his neck. She stares out at the water. “He had nightmares, when you were gone. When he was sick, or injured, or even just particularly tired, anytime he slept deeply enough to dream. He called out for you.” She sighs, a soft, wistful thing. “It isn’t much, maybe. But you know Geralt better than anyone. You know he can’t talk about it. But he missed you.

“And now...well, now at least he’s finally getting some rest. He looks at you every time you look away from him, looks at you like he can’t believe you’re really there, like if he looks away you might disappear.” She turns to meet his wide-eyed gaze, smiling sadly. “He’s in love with you, too, Jaskier. He may be absolutely terrible at showing it, but I see it. Just like you saw him fall in love with me.”

Few things leave Jaskier speechless and yet he finds himself mute. Instead, he hesitantly puts his arm around her, and she tucks her head snugly against his shoulder. 

“It’s hard,” she murmurs after a moment. “Being in love with two people at once. I pity Geralt in that regard. I once—” she cuts off abruptly. “Geralt probably told you all about it.”

Jaskier snorts. “I thought we’d established that Geralt doesn’t actually talk to the people he loves.” That word feels strange, heavy in his mouth and yet unbearably light, as though voicing it may allow it to fly away.

There’s a pause, and then Yennefer is giggling against his shoulder. “You’re right, you’re right,” she agrees breathlessly. “What an idiotic assumption.” The laughter fades into the darkness of the night sky. “I once loved two men, Geralt and...and another. It was an impossible choice. They fought and blustered and in the end I left them both.” She shivers as a cool wind blows off the sea, and Jaskier pulls her in a little closer as she removes her pale legs from the water, shaking them dry and tucking them neatly under her body. “It was an impossible choice,” she echoes.

Jaskier nods. His lute, sitting forgotten on his other side, catches his eye. “In the songs, you and I would be bitter enemies.” He strokes his free hand gently over the open strings. “We’d hate each other desperately and wage cruel war over the man we love.” He can almost hear the ballad now in the night breeze. “But funnily enough, it turns out that I _don’t_ hate you. I don’t want to fight.”

“I don’t hate you, either.” It’s quiet, and then she snorts lightly. “And you only don’t want to fight because you’re terrified of me, bard.”

Completely inexplicably, he finds himself grinning like a fool. “Granted, you are an absolutely terrifying person,” he allows. “But still, I'm fairly certain I should be commended on this, too. Look at us, refusing the path of violence. Who’d have thought? How wise we must be.”

Yen smiles. “We’re quite evolved.”

“So…what do two evolved, wise, gregarious individuals such as ourselves do in these situations?” He tries to keep the tone light, but he feels the weight of the question in his body. How can they possibly proceed without hurting at least one of them, if not all three?

“I hate to say it, but I think we’re going to have to talk to Geralt.”

Jaskier groans. “I guess it’s unavoidable,” he agrees grudgingly.

“Sorry it’s such a chore,” grunts a gravelly voice from behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt’s face is stone, his eyes boring into the wall just past her head. Jaskier would wonder if he hears her at all but for the telltale twitch of his jaw as he struggles to maintain his composure. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, finally, his voice a sharp growl. “Hasn’t he hurt enough without...this?” His eyes flicker to Jaskier then down to the floor, a flash of golden pain, _shame._
> 
> “Because he deserves to know.” Yennefer’s voice is quiet, but it brooks no argument. “We all deserve the truth from each other now, don’t we?” She takes a deep breath, casting the smallest of glances at Jaskier before she slips her dainty fingers into one of Geralt’s massive, calloused hands. “Tell us what you _want_ , Geralt.”

Jaskier jerks away from Yennefer and stumbles to his feet, splashing them both a bit in his haste. “Geralt.” His throat is suddenly dry. 

Yennefer stands up beside him, far more gracefully. “Everything all right?” she asks in a steady voice.

Geralt nods brusquely. “Woke up and you were gone. I didn’t intend to…” He glances back and forth between the two of them, Yennefer in her thin shift, Jaskier’s unlaced undershirt and messy hair. His face betrays nothing. “To interrupt.”

The moon illuminates the flash of annoyance on Yennefer’s face. “Geralt, you cannot possibly be _jeal…_ ”

“We were talking about you,” Jaskier blurts out. “We...we need to talk to you.”

Geralt doesn’t move, but something in the hard lines of his face softens as he locks eyes with the bard. He nods, an almost imperceptible movement, before he notices Jaskier shiver with another gust of wind from the waterfront. “Come on,” he grunts. “No use catching your death out here.” With a quick glance at each other, Yennefer and Jaskier follow him to the small inn a few minutes’ walk from the shore.

Geralt turns abruptly as they reach the stairs. “Can we speak in your room?” He’s looking at Jaskier, his brow drawn into a tense frown. “It’s Ciri. I don’t want to wake her.”

Jaskier nods, leading them to his little chamber at the end of the hallway. Geralt immediately tends to the fireplace, and it makes the bard ache to see the familiar scene. How many rooms just like this have they stayed in over twenty years’ time, how many times has Jaskier watched Geralt meticulously arranging the firewood before casting a quick _Igni_ to light it? He sinks to the bed, suddenly overwhelmed, and to his surprise Yennefer sits beside him, squeezing his knee lightly and giving him a little reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach her distant eyes.

Geralt pulls a stark wooden chair from the desk in the corner to the bedside, joining them silently. His posture clearly means to appear nonchalant, but Jaskier can see the tightness in his outline, dark against the orange glow of the fire, the careful construction of the apathy he exudes.

It’s Yennefer who finally breaks the silence. “I’m tired,” she announces firmly. “I’m tired of the three of us dancing around each other. I’m tired of pretending not to see what I see. I’m tired of constantly second-guessing myself and our relationship, of fearing I’ll wake up some morning to find that you’ve packed up Ciri and Roach and left to chase Jaskier across the Continent. Without me.”

Taciturn as the witcher may be, there are very few times Jaskier has ever seen him completely dumbstruck. “Yen...” His voice, when he finds it, scrapes out like sandpaper as his eyes fix on her, desperate, pleading. “Yen, please don’t…”

“You’re in love with him,” she states, and Geralt visibly winces at the words. “You’re in love with him, and he’s in love with you. You’re in love with me, and I’m in love with you.”

Geralt’s golden eyes flutter shut, his teeth grinding from the tension in his jaw. “Yen, please…”

“I’m not giving you an ultimatum.” She reaches out to stroke the witcher’s cheek. “Geralt. Look at me.”

He obeys immediately.

“You’re a wreck without him. I know you like to pretend you don’t need anyone, and that’s all well and good, but we three know it’s bullshit. You’re a bundle of nerves, you’re grumpier than normal which is saying quite a lot, you sit around in tavern halls desperate to hear some gossip about his whereabouts, you glare daggers at every pimply-faced bardling who sings one of his songs.”

Geralt’s face is stone, his eyes boring into the wall just past her head. Jaskier would wonder if he hears her at all but for the telltale twitch of his jaw as he struggles to maintain his composure. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, finally, his voice a sharp growl. “Hasn’t he hurt enough without...this?” His eyes flicker to Jaskier then down to the floor, a flash of golden pain, _shame_.

“Because he deserves to know.” Yennefer’s voice is quiet, but it brooks no argument. “We all deserve the truth from each other now, don’t we?” She takes a deep breath, casting the smallest of glances at Jaskier before she slips her dainty fingers into one of Geralt’s massive, calloused hands. “Tell us what you _want_ , Geralt.”

There’s a harsh, short noise that might have been a laugh from any other throat. “What do _you_ want, Yennefer?” That tone is a challenge, Jaskier knows, one he’s heard only a handful of times, one that always has disastrous outcomes. He braces himself, waiting for Yennefer’s answering fury, because he knows how this ends. _If life could give me one blessing..._

“I want you.” Both men stare at her, at the small, sad smile on her tight lips and the openness in those striking violet eyes as she squeezes Geralt’s hand. “I want you, and I want you to be fulfilled. I don’t want you to deprive yourself of your love on my account.”

A stunned silence fills the room. Geralt stares at Yennefer, full of unasked questions, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She gives him an almost imperceptible nod, and with a deep breath, he turns to the bard. “I owe you an apology.” His deep voice is a rasp of regret and unchecked emotion that Jaskier doesn’t think he can stand.

“Please don’t,” he answers quickly, his breath fast and shallow, “it’s in the past, it’s…”

“It was cruel.” Jaskier can’t bear to meet Geralt’s gaze. “I tried to hurt you. To drive you away. It’s unforgivable.”

Jaskier stares at the fire. For a year he’s imagined this moment, imagined what he would say. That he would berate him, embrace him, reject him, welcome him, scream his rage, confess his love. Tell him to leave. Beg him to stay.

“I always knew that you loved her.” The bard’s voice is steadier than he feels, measured. He grounds himself, fingers gripping the rough straw mattress. The words are sour on his tongue, but he can find no others to give. Geralt hasn’t denied Yennefer’s assumptions of his feelings, but he hasn’t confirmed them, either, not truly. Jaskier had tried, on the mountain, to make Geralt see, and it led to the loneliest year of Jaskier’s life, wandering the Continent, an open wound, twenty-two years’ worth of love and devotion tossed aside without the slightest hesitation. He takes a breath. “I knew what we had, what you had to give me, and I wanted more even though I know you never offered it. If I...if I was hurt, it was because I didn’t manage expectations. That’s my fault, not yours.”

Geralt lurches forward, hand outstretched toward Jaskier until he stops himself, rooted to his chair, every muscle in his body alight with restraint, his eyes squeezing closed as though every ounce of concentration must be routed towards keeping him from rushing to the bard’s side. When someone finally moves, it’s Yennefer, her small hand on Geralt’s tight shoulder jerking him to attention.

“You want to go to him.” Her voice is low, soothing, and her other hand runs through his long white hair, a surprisingly tender gesture. “You want to comfort him, to tend the wounds you inflicted, just as he tended your wounds for years.” She rises, pulling Geralt to his feet slowly and drawing him toward the trembling bard. “So comfort him.”

And Geralt sinks to his knees before him, strong hand shaking as he reaches out to tilt Jaskier’s chin to meet his gaze. “It was never your fault,” and Jaskier feels a hot tear burning down his face at the fierceness in those gold eyes. A single finger raises to brush away the tear, the rough skin a distinct contrast to the gentleness of the touch, and Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into the soft caress.

“Forgive me.” It’s not a question but not a command, a quiet plea.

All Jaskier can do is nod, pressing his forehead to Geralt’s and breathing him in.

“What do you want, Geralt?” Yennefer’s voice is a low purr beside them, gentle, hypnotizing, and the question is different, somehow, now that the rage and pain has drained from the witcher, replaced by something else entirely, something desperate. His breath feels ragged against Jaskier’s face, so close, so close.

“Want to kiss him,” comes the gasped reply.

“Good,” croons Yennefer, and Jaskier feels as much as sees the shiver that wracks Geralt’s body at the word. She’s close to them, too, standing just behind where Geralt is knelt in front of him. They’re beautiful together, Jaskier realizes, somehow for the first time, mesmerized by the sublime contrast of her darkness and his light. She’s close enough that her lilac and gooseberry perfume mixes with the smell of Geralt, the smell of leather and horse and home, and the combination floods Jaskier’s senses like some sort of spell, and he’s looking to her, waiting for _something_. She catches his glance, a surprised, intrigued glint in her eyes as she reaches out slowly, runs a thin finger down his cheek, feather-light. “You want that too, don’t you, bard?”

“Gods, yes, please,” he stammers. 

Geralt’s eyes open, now, drifting down to Jaskier’s lips then back up to his eyes. It may be redundant, when they’ve both just confessed their desire aloud, but that careful, deliberate pause, Geralt silently broadcasting his wishes and waiting for confirmation that they’re returned, is so achingly familiar it nearly steals Jaskier’s breath. But instead of drawing him in, Geralt turns ever so slightly, leaning his head against Yennefer’s thigh.

“Please,” he moans, “please tell me, Yen.” 

There’s a twitch of those red lips that makes Jaskier’s mouth go dry. “I do so love it when you beg,” she smirks, and abruptly Jaskier feels lightheaded, his entire body thrumming with a sudden force as he watches tan fingers thread gracefully through white hair and pull, rough, wrenching Geralt’s gaze to meet her where she looms over him. “You may kiss him,” she instructs, her voice low but sharp, inexorable, “kiss him, fuck him, suck him, whatever the two of you may desire. You have my permission.” She leans down, placing a soft kiss on the pale skin of his forehead. “But come back to me when you’re finished.” She releases him, meets Jaskier’s gaze with a small, inexplicable smile, and slips toward the door.

“ _Please_ stay.”

It’s only when he sees Geralt and Yennefer both staring at him that Jaskier realizes he’s the one who said it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking around! I'd love to hear your feedback if you have any <3 
> 
> Next up, the smut!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier feels the blood rush to his face in spite of himself. He’s no blushing schoolboy; he’s found his way into the marriage beds of lovely couples before, partaken in his fair share of hedonistic romps with two, five, a dozen partners at a time. He enjoys sex, and he’s never been opposed to indulging in carnal delights, no matter the configuration.
> 
> He’s also never been presented with the possibility of bedding his beloved with his beloved’s current lover, which...sounds like a terrible idea, when he thinks about it like that.
> 
> And yet...
> 
> “You want me to stay?” Yennefer asks, the smallest devious smile playing on her lips. “Tell me, bard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks, The Porn That Was Promised

Jaskier feels the blood rush to his face in spite of himself. He’s no blushing schoolboy; he’s found his way into the marriage beds of lovely couples before, partaken in his fair share of hedonistic romps with two, five, a dozen partners at a time. He _enjoys_ sex, and he’s never been opposed to indulging in carnal delights, no matter the configuration.

He’s also never been presented with the possibility of bedding his beloved with his beloved’s current lover, which...sounds like a terrible idea, when he thinks about it like that.

And yet...

“You want me to stay?” Yennefer asks, the smallest devious smile playing on her lips. “Tell me, bard.”

“I do.” He feels drunk off her smirk, off Geralt’s easy pliancy under that brief rough touch. But there’s something else, too, some live, chaotic energy pulsing through the room that seems to begin and end in Yennefer. “This wouldn’t be happening, had you not intervened.” He strokes Geralt’s cheek lightly, delighting in the way the witcher leans into the touch before shifting his gaze back to the sorceress. “You’re the one who proposed we share. It seems rather indecorous not to repay your generosity in kind. That is, if it’s all right with you?” He turns to look at Geralt, hoping he hasn’t overstepped.

Geralt pulls Jaskier’s hand from its place on his cheek and kisses his palm reverently. “You should stay, Yen.” His eyes never falter from Jaskier.

Yennefer smiles, slipping out of her shoes and meandering to the far side of the bed. “Geralt,” she says, lounging gracefully on the bed beside Jaskier, “weren’t you going to kiss him?”

The witcher slips a strong hand to Jaskier’s jaw and slowly draws him into a kiss. It’s gentle, soft, the way kisses with Geralt always start, but Jaskier moans into it, opening it quickly into something messier, more desperate. The feeling, the taste, all of Jaskier’s senses are flooded with the familiarity of falling into him, and soon he’s tugging at the black linen shirt and leaving his rough lips only to toss the garment aside, his hands greedy for the warm, scarred skin. 

Geralt chuckles against his mouth, but he complies as Jaskier pulls at him, leading him up off the floor until he’s kneeling on the bed between Jaskier’s welcoming thighs. He kisses down the bard’s neck, lips trailing to the exposed collarbone, nosing the dark hair there. “ _Gods,_ Geralt, I’ve missed your mouth,” Jaskier breathes. 

There’s a little interested hum to his left. “For one who so loathes talking, our Geralt does have an awfully talented mouth,” Yennefer murmurs, a hand snaking into the witcher’s hair, applying the slightest pressure that leaves Geralt moaning into the crook of the bard’s neck before smoothly withdrawing her arm. “Don’t you agree, Jaskier?” Her voice keeps its husky tone, but she’s looking at him, the unspoken question apparent beneath the light banter.

And something about feeling her eyes fixed on him as Geralt mouths at the pulse point of his neck alights something feverish in Jaskier, and he’s moaning, “Yes, the _best_ mouth, so lovely, so generous…” Hands are pulling his chemise over his head, strong hands petting down his sides as Geralt nestles into his chest, kissing, licking, sucking, but sometimes just breathing him in, sometimes smoothing his face against the coarse hair he finds. The witcher’s hard abdomen presses deliciously against Jaskier’s straining dick, and it takes everything he has not to rock up into that glorious friction.

Yennefer turns on her side, propping herself up on an elbow to get a better view of the two, reaching to brush the fringe from Jaskier’s suddenly sweaty forehead. “Generous,” she echoes, her voice carefully bored, but the sparkle in her violet eyes betrays her. “Is Geralt good at sucking cock? I’ve wondered.”

He feels more than hears the tiny moan that slips out against the nipple Geralt had been mouthing, and Jaskier can’t help smiling. After the tension of the past two days, the uncertainty of tonight’s conversation, the wildly unfamiliar dynamic of Yennefer and all her terrifying, thrilling power, Jaskier begins to relax into himself. _This_ he knows. “He’s truly a wonder.” He strokes Geralt’s hair gently. “The songs I could write—”

“Please don’t.”

“—shush, you’re just as bad as he is—the songs I could write about his lips, that tongue, the jaw that never seems to tire, _fuck.”_ Jaskier attempts to disguise an undignified yelp as Geralt suddenly palms his erection, mouth trailing dangerously close to his waistband.

“Hmm. I’d imagined as much. He’s attentive, I’ll give him that.” A tiny hitch in Yennefer’s sultry voice catches Jaskier’s attention, and he sees a strong white hand dragging the hem of her nightgown slowly up as Geralt caresses her smooth inner thigh. “What he may lack in skill he more than makes up for in enthusiasm.” Jaskier can’t help the little whine as he watches, entranced, as the hand is lost beneath the gauzy white fabric, mapping small, slow circles that make the mage writhe against him. When she speaks again there’s a lovely breathiness to her voice that Jaskier’s never heard before. “Would you like his mouth on your cock? I’m sure Geralt’s quite desperate for it.”

Geralt shifts forward to kiss him hungrily, trapping Jaskier with his delightfully solid body, hips rocking gently against him. “Please, Jaskier,” he mutters against the bard’s lips.

“Gods, you’re so good,” Jaskier breathes, caressing his face as Geralt’s eyes flutter shut at the praise. He kisses him again, a featherlight brush of his lips. “You can have whatever you like of me, darling.”

The witcher pulls back, ridding Jaskier of his boots, trousers and smallclothes with a practiced ease before settling on his knees to survey him, a reverent hand tracing the jut of the bard’s hip. He’s wearing a look of deep concentration, as though he’s doing all he can to embed the moment in his memory. And suddenly, he’s smirking, an eyebrow quirked in Yennefer’s direction.

Her eyes rake shamelessly over Jaskier’s body, teeth pressed firmly into her lower lip. She notices their attention and shrugs, grinning as she drifts her hand down her body to pick up where the witcher left off, lazily touching herself just out of view. “Your bard has a certain appeal like this, Geralt.” She extends her dainty foot to rest on his firm, scarred shoulder, guiding him back down Jaskier’s body. “It’s no wonder you missed having him in your bed.”

Geralt’s rough, angular hand wraps so gently around his cock, strokes him so tenderly Jaskier has to bite back a sob. “Did you?” he asks, rocking unhurriedly into Geralt’s fist. “Miss me in your bed?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s tongue finds its way to the crease of the bard’s thigh.

“That’s not an— _fuck—_ an answer.” 

Geralt pauses for a moment, nuzzling against the dark curls at the base of his cock without looking at him. “You know I did.” It’s so low Jaskier barely hears it.

“I, ah—I actually don’t know that.” 

He hears the vulnerability in his own voice, and he curses himself for it. He knows better than to push too hard with Geralt, to expect too much, especially when things are fragile, new.

But Geralt’s looking up at him with an unreadable expression. “Missed you all the time,” comes the gravelly admission, then his lips engulf the head of Jaskier’s cock.

“I— _damn it,_ Geralt, that’s cheating,” he moans. “I will not be distracted from the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me just because you happen to be blowing me!”

Geralt’s answering hum around him does nothing to strengthen his resolve.

Yennefer laughs, looking absolutely delighted as she places a playful kiss on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Don’t take it personally, bard, the first time he acknowledged he cared for me he promptly pretended to fall asleep. At least he’s getting you off in the process of evading conversation.”

Geralt’s mouth never falters as he reaches for her leg, pulling it to hook loosely over Jaskier’s, spreading her open towards him. He continues working the bard’s length with his hand as he pulls off, shifting to kiss his way up Yennefer’s thigh. “That night you got off three times before that, as I recall,” he quips against her skin.

“Oh sure, _now_ he can talk.” The breathlessness somewhat lessens the effect of Jaskier’s intended snark. 

He watches Geralt push her dress up to grant him access, placing light kisses against the crook of her thigh before tasting her with a moan. Yennefer’s hands find their way into Geralt’s hair, combing through gently for a moment before she takes control, holding him in place as she rolls her hips needily against his mouth.

“Gods, you’re lovely,” Jaskier sighs, reaching down to caress Yennefer’s fingers and Geralt’s hair in one movement. “Both of you. Captivating. Exquisite. Resplendent.” He arches up a little as the hand on his cock picks up its pace. “Although I will say that you’re both still absurdly overdressed. Either that or I’m underdressed. I’m certainly hoping it’s the former.”

Yennefer snorts, but she pushes up from the bed enough to gracefully slip her arms through the wide open neckline of her gown, letting it pool about her waist.

Jaskier lets out a moan of appreciation at the stunning, bizarrely familiar sight. “Can I just say, this view is _so_ much easier to admire when you aren’t summoning primal magical forces and threatening to geld me?”

“The night’s still young,” she teases, trailing a hand down his abdomen and circling his cock loosely while guiding Geralt, fingers still tightly gripping his hair, back to the bard, and suddenly they’re moving in concert, the velvety smoothness of her hand and the wet heat of his mouth working together to make Jaskier entirely undone.

“Loath as I am to stop you,” he breathes after relishing the sensation as long as he dares, “I don’t know how much…”

Yennefer’s hand stops immediately, gripping him firmly at the base as Geralt draws back, resting his head gently against Jaskier’s hip, long hair soft against heated skin. “We’ll give you a break,” Yennefer purrs, releasing him before looking over the witcher with a critical glance. “Your bard’s right, you’re still far too clothed.”

“Hmm.” Geralt places a light kiss to Jaskier’s stomach before climbing off the bed and stripping off his boots and leathers with utilitarian efficiency.

Jaskier tentatively cuddles closer to Yennefer, laying his head gingerly in her lap when she immediately responds to the contact by petting his hair. He sighs, running a hand down her smooth leg languorously. “Is not our Geralt a thing of beauty?” he asks, drinking in the sight of the man in all his glory for the first time in years. 

“He’s not too hard on the eyes,” Yennefer affirms drily, ignoring Geralt’s dubious grunt. The witcher drapes his trousers over the chair before crawling back into bed, kissing Yennefer deeply before turning his attentions to the bard in her lap.

Geralt lies down beside them, taking time to reacquaint himself with Jaskier’s mouth. Yennefer shifts, moving out from beneath him, but Jaskier doesn’t break the moment, letting Geralt’s steady, careful hands guide him closer, cradling his face.

He drifts his hands down the witcher’s body, feeling scars he’s accustomed to and some he isn’t scattered along his arms, his torso, his back. Geralt is solid, sturdy, and when Jaskier wraps a hand around his cock, its weight is heavy and familiar against his palm.

Geralt moans softly into his mouth, and Jaskier breaks the kiss to observe as he slowly strokes him. He’s beautiful; his eyes shut, long lashes quivering ever so slightly, lips red and wet and open, fine light hair draped messily around them. The flickering warm glow from the fireplace enlivens Geralt’s pale skin, and the quiet intimacy of the moment threatens to overwhelm Jaskier. “I missed seeing you like this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the witcher’s temple.

The mattress dips slightly, breaking the bard’s reverie as Yennefer climbs into the bed on Geralt’s other side. She’s discarded the dressing gown at last and removed the ribbon that had barely kept her hair restrained. Jaskier can’t help staring at the vision before him. She drapes herself onto Geralt’s chest, an immense arm automatically finding its way around her until they’re a tangle of pale and dark limbs, of black curls and white locks. She kisses him then slips a leg over him, pulling herself up to sit on his thighs. She smiles at Jaskier and laces her fingers with his on Geralt’s cock, gliding in tandem. 

Geralt moans, pulling Jaskier into a needy, messy kiss, his hips arching into their intertwined touch. “What do you need, Geralt?” Yennefer’s voice is strident and clear, breaking through the hazy, lusty atmosphere. He whines against Jaskier’s mouth but doesn’t answer. “I asked you a question,” she chides, shifting up his body. “Do you want me to ride you while you play with your bard?”

“Yes, _fuck_ , Yen,” he pants. She smirks down at him, using their linked grip to line him up at her entrance before releasing Jaskier’s hand, his fingers brushing lightly against her clit in their retreat. She rolls her hips downwards, taking Geralt inside her with a pleased hum. 

His hands move instinctively to her hips, but she swats them away. “I’ve got this, thank you very much,” she laughs, setting a languid pace above him.

Jaskier watches silently. They’re practiced in this dance; every movement syncs neatly, her smooth and graceful curves rolling down onto the witcher with a breathtaking ease, Geralt’s hips rocking ever so gently to meet her. She’s always stunning, but like this—firelight catching the slight, appealing glisten of sweat on her flawless olive skin, violet eyes ablaze, silky black waves cascading down her shoulders and back, the slight curl on her open lips and unabashed power in her posture—she looks every bit a goddess.

“Enjoying the show?” She caresses a lovely breast by way of emphasis.

“You look like a goddess.” Well. He certainly hadn’t intended to say it out loud, but he’s too enthralled to feel embarrassed.

“Does that mean you intend to worship me, bard?” He can’t help the moan at her coquettish grin, but she continues before he can answer. “Perhaps you’ll have the opportunity later.”

And then Geralt’s kissing him again, kissing him like a starving man, his rough hands smoothing over Jaskier’s face, his hair, his neck, his chest, any bit of skin he can reach to stroke with shaking fingers. He’s close, Jaskier realizes, this frenzied tactility an effort to ground himself.

He kisses the hard line of the witcher’s jaw lightly. “Gods, you’re perfect.” It thrills him to see Geralt tremble under the praise rather than scoff and deny it. He slips his fingers through Geralt’s, kissing their entwined hands as they come to rest on his broad chest. “There’s naught I’ve yet seen in this world that compares to the sight of you like this,” he sighs, lavishing attention on his neck, “giving yourself over to us, allowing us to love you so well.” He draws back slightly, indulging in the duality etched into Geralt’s every expression, every movement, the tranquility of surrender against the cresting tension of his flesh. “If only you could see the way you look, darling. As though at any moment heaven may break over you.”

“Well, that’s to be expected, fucking a goddess.” There’s a hint of laughter on Yennefer’s parted lips. “I think we’ve quite overwhelmed our witcher, Jaskier.”

“You’re doing so well for us, Geralt,” and Geralt moans at the bard’s praise, his hips darting up to meet Yennefer with a sudden urgency.

She smoothes placating hands over his flanks as she stills above him. “Easy, love.” She lowers herself to drape across his chest, planting a tender kiss on his lips. “We have time.” She turns her head to look at Jaskier at his side. They’re all so close, suddenly, breathing the same air, her small shift bringing an unexpected intimacy. She traces Jaskier’s cheekbone with two featherlight fingers. “He wants you inside him, quite terribly.”

“Yen!” Geralt’s protest sounds a little wrecked, but he’s clearly emerged from his reverie. He looks flustered, almost _embarrassed_ , and he fixes Yennefer with a wide-eyed glare.

“I wasn’t _trying_ to, Geralt, but you’re thinking it so loudly.” She kisses him again. “I highly doubt your bard’s offended. Are you, Jaskier?”

“I’m really not.” Heat surges through him. Geralt _wants_ him; wants him so desperately that he’s psychically broadcasting it, apparently. He turns Geralt’s chin toward him, petting his face lightly as he looks into his eyes, so dilated they look almost entirely pupil with the tiniest sliver of gold circling the edges. “Is that what you want, Geralt? Want me to take you while you’re inside Yennefer, feel us both, let us take such good care of you?”

Geralt lets out a choked gasp, nodding furiously as Yennefer works a lovely red bruise onto his collarbone. “Please,” he grits out. 

Jaskier kisses him gently. “All you had to do was ask, love.” He slips out of bed to retrieve the vial of oil from his pack.

He hesitates before rejoining the pair on the bed. The pace of their hips has slowed to a halt, and they’re wrapped around each other in a tender embrace, Geralt’s hand combing gently through Yennefer’s hair. It’s breathtakingly intimate, seeing uninhibited affection from two such guarded, powerful forces.

“Are you still planning to fuck him senseless or did you decide to stare all night instead?”

Jaskier lets out a huff of a laugh as he climbs back in bed. Yennefer pulls herself back up to sitting, throwing a smirk over her shoulder at him as he settles in behind her, between the inviting spread of Geralt’s legs. “So crude,” he tuts, placing a light kiss on her shoulder blade. He slips his hands beneath Geralt’s strong legs, running them gently up until he can massage a handful of the lovely, muscled flesh of his ass. “Up, please,” he says, and when Geralt complies Jaskier slips a pillow beneath his raised hips.

He uncorks the vial, warming the light oil between his fingers as he plants slow, messy kisses on the witcher’s sensitive inner thighs, relishing the shivers he feels as he tongues at the flesh. He lavishes attention to the velvet-soft skin of his balls with a slow, contained fervor as a slicked finger circles Geralt’s tight rim, patiently massaging its way inside. Yennefer’s hips rock unhurriedly, not moving to unseat herself from Geralt’s cock but keeping a gentle, tantalizing tempo above him. Jaskier works him open slowly, one finger then another, listening to the soft stream of accidental noises escaping him, pressing only when the witcher moves to meet him.

When the bard slides a third finger in alongside the first two Geralt cries out and shifts his hips in a demanding rhythm, fucking himself back on Jaskier’s hand then up into Yennefer’s warmth in earnest. “Feel so good,” comes a rattled moan, “please…”

The mage is not unaffected by the change. “Fuck,” she swears breathily, leaning back until she’s resting flush against Jaskier’s chest for support, head falling back onto his shoulder as she meets Geralt’s pace.

Jaskier can’t help stroking her upper arm gently with the hand not currently fucking her lover. “May I?” he asks softly, tracing restless circles on her skin.

“Fuck, yes, touch me,” she bites out, grabbing his hand and dragging it roughly to her cunt.

He runs his fingers over her, avoiding her sensitive nub in favor of exploring her folds, feeling where they part to accept Geralt’s thick cock, feeling the conjunction of their flesh as they move in harmony. Jaskier drags newly wet fingers up just above her clit, a light, slow movement, experimenting with varying speed and pressure until he finds the touch that has her keening and bucking onto his hand.

“Gods, look at you,” he chokes out, words barely audible above the slap of flesh and the noises ripped from Geralt and Yennefer alike. “The two most divine, glorious individuals on the entire Continent on the brink of coming apart under my fingers.”

Yennefer’s hand flies to his jaw and drags him into a bruising kiss, moaning into his open mouth as she rides out the waves of her pleasure, her body wracked with tremors against him. She pulls his hand off her sex after a moment but guides his arm around her waist as she continues to kiss him shakily, riding Geralt hard. The witcher’s thrusts grow irregular, and Jaskier curls his fingers ever so slightly until Geralt makes a punched-out sound and he’s clenching down on him, his whole body seeming to pulse as he spills deep inside Yennefer.

The mage is the first to withdraw, pulling off of Geralt and lying on the bed beside him, openly panting and clearly wanting space to recover. Jaskier pets the witcher’s sides soothingly, placing gentle kisses on his abdomen as he comes down. “You were so good, love,” he whispers, his lips brushing warm skin, “so stunning, sublime, gods, I could watch you come for years and never tire of the sight…”

After several moments of murmuring praises against the witcher’s skin, Jaskier slips his fingers out slowly, flinching at the little whine that escapes Geralt and scurrying up the bed to wrap him in his arms. Geralt nuzzles into his neck. “Thank you.”

Jaskier kisses the top of his head and pulls him closer, his eyes drifting shut until a hand circles his achingly hard cock. Geralt is stroking him languidly, mouthing at his neck. “You don’t have to…”

“Hmm.” The witcher shifts, climbing atop him. His long, powerful body weighs the bard down most delightfully. “Want to.” He rolls his hips against Jaskier’s to prove his point. He’s not fully hard, but it’s apparent he’s far from uninterested. 

Jaskier moans, arching up as Geralt drags their cocks together, the combined wetness from Geralt and Yennefer’s come anointing their union in a way that Jaskier should probably find disgusting but decidedly does _not_. “Bloody witchers.” He feels the rumble of Geralt’s laugh against his chest.

Beside them, Yennefer curls up comfortably with a blanket, soft-lidded gaze fixed on the rutting men as she sighs, content. “Told you, he wants you to fuck him. Geralt is nothing if not single-minded.”

A strong, wet hand circles Jaskier’s cock, liberally coating him. Geralt rolls his hips sinfully, gliding the cleft of his ass along Jaskier’s erection. “Want you inside me.” They let out a simultaneous groan as the head of the bard’s cock catches on his slicked hole. “Please, Jaskier.”

He nods, eyes fluttering shut as Geralt lines him up and sinks slowly onto his cock.

It’s quiet, nothing but the soft sounds of fleshy friction and uneven breath. Normally Jaskier fills the air with gentle praises, but he can’t seem to locate his voice as he watches Geralt, the way his muscles flex and relax so gracefully beneath his scarred skin, the open, blissed out expression on his lovely face. He’s never seen Geralt so unguarded, so willing to accept pleasure, to seek it out for himself, even, without being overcome with shame or a need to subsume himself in his partner’s desires. Jaskier finds he can’t look away.

Yennefer brushes her fingers through his damp hair, drawing closer to him, her breath warm on his ear as she whispers to him. “You’re so good for him, Jaskier,” she purrs, and he moans as his cock twitches involuntarily. She’s _clever_ , adopting his own strategies against him, sensing that he craves this gentle validation as much as he loves giving it. “You’re filling him up so well. Look how happy you’re making him, how good he feels when he’s sitting on your cock.” Her soft lips plant a series of light kisses from his ear to his chin. “Do you want to be good for me, too, sweet boy?”

“Yes,” he pants helplessly, “please, Yen, please…”

She doesn’t need to be asked twice. She pulls him into a searing kiss, then her smooth thighs envelope him as she straddles his face, her body towards Geralt. An uncharacteristic whine escapes her as Jaskier’s tongue immediately, greedily laps at her. “Good.” She rolls her hips luxuriously against his mouth. “Drink Geralt’s come from me.”

Simultaneous moans rip from both men, Jaskier’s a delicious vibration against her cunt. He can taste the familiar bitterness of Geralt’s come mixed with the new, intoxicating taste of the sorceress, and everything is wet, messy, chaotic and he can’t get enough, can’t get enough of Yennefer grinding shamelessly into his mouth, of Geralt’s faltering hips slamming down to meet his thrusts. He knows he won’t last long this way, not with her moans as he sucks her clit into his mouth to worship it, with the way their bodies shift as the two above him pull each other into an unruly, frantic kiss. His hand that isn’t grasping Yennefer’s hip journeys between them, reaching out until Geralt laces their fingers together, squeezing tightly, his thumb running over Jaskier’s wrist, and the little intimacy is enough to send him over the edge, coming buried deep in Geralt, who gently rocks him through the waves of his climax. He feels the sorceress tense above him, hears her saying something but can’t make it out in the whirl of sensation as he tongues at her tirelessly until her thighs are shaking around him and she’s pulling away, planting an unexpected kiss beneath his ear and cooing, "So good for us, sweet bard,” before collapsing on the bed beside him. 

Geralt shifts forward to kiss him, both of them groaning as Jaskier’s softening cock slips from him. Jaskier tries to catch his breath, arms wrapped around his lover as Geralt burrows against his neck, strong hands moving in delicate, unhurried patterns across his skin, but he can feel the hard jut of the witcher’s cock against his stomach. Jaskier gropes at his hips and Geralt complies, letting the bard manhandle him until he’s straddling his shoulders with Jaskier looking up at him through dark lashes, eyes bright and mouth open.

“ _Fuck_ , Jaskier.” All it takes is a few shallow thrusts before Geralt spills into his waiting mouth, soft lips suckling gently through the aftershocks. He collapses beside the bard, a heavy arm curling around his waist as his eyes flutter shut.

“Gods be good,” Jaskier breathes, staring up at the ceiling’s beams.

There’s a breathless laugh as Yennefer hands him a damp cloth that he gratefully accepts, cleaning himself and Geralt off as best he can before tossing it on the floor. “I don’t know about the gods, but _that_ certainly was good,” Yennefer quips, carding her fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “Although I assure you, this was not what I intended when I approached you this evening, bard.”

Jaskier hums, reaching out to trace meandering patterns on the smooth skin of her arm. “But you don’t...regret it?”

She shakes her head, smiling softly. “Look at the two of you,” and Jaskier imagines the picture they must make, Geralt plastered against his back, the gentle rise and fall of his chest even and slow. “What better outcome could there be?”

He feels the vibrations in his chest before he hears Geralt’s voice. “Talk tomorrow,” comes the gravelly mumble. “Sleep now.”

Yennefer catches Jaskier’s eye at that, her lip twitching as she rolls her eyes, and the two of them are giggling quietly, giddy and sated and light. He reaches out, softly stroking her face, still smiling but searching, questioning. She answers by capturing his lips in a small, chaste kiss. “Goodnight, bard.”

“Goodnight.” It feels simple, somehow, with Geralt sleeping behind him and Yennefer settling down in front. But it isn’t, can’t be, not with decades of yearning and years of resentment and the heartbreak they’d all suffered on the mountain. The proposition to share Geralt had been one thing, but this is something else entirely, something more, this unexpected burgeoning feeling that somehow seems wide enough to encompass the three of them. But Geralt's right. They can talk in the morning.

Nestled between them, Jaskier sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read/given kudos/left comments. I love you all and you're seriously too kind. I've really loved stumbling through writing this dynamic of the three of them together, and it's definitely something I want to explore more, especially Yen/Jaskier's relationship.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://reinvent-and-believe.tumblr.com)! Let's be friends!

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr!](https://reinvent-and-believe.tumblr.com)
> 
> I really appreciate your comments, kudos, and bookmarks. You all are the best <3


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